9981444779554 Sycamore
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99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd i 119/09/20139/09/2013 11:05:2111:05:21 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd iiii 119/09/20139/09/2013 111:05:211:05:21 Also by John Grisham A Time to Kill The Firm The Pelican Brief The Client The Chamber The Rainmaker The Runaway Jury The Partner The Street Lawyer The Testament The Brethren A Painted House Skipping Christmas The Summons The King of Torts Bleachers The Last Juror The Broker Playing for Pizza The Appeal The Associate Ford County The Confession The Litigators Calico Joe The Racketeer Theodore Boone Theodore Boone: The Abduction Theodore Boone: The Accused Theodore Boone: The Activist Non-fi ction The Innocent Man 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd iiiiii 119/09/20139/09/2013 11:05:2111:05:21 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd iviv 119/09/20139/09/2013 111:05:211:05:21 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd v 119/09/20139/09/2013 11:05:2111:05:21 For sale only in India, Bangladesh, Nepal, Bhutan, Sri Lanka and Pakistan. First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton An Hachette UK company 1 Copyright © Belfry Holdings, Inc., 2013 The right of John Grisham to be identifi ed as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fi ctitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library ISBN 998 1 444 77955 4 Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh Printed and bound in India by Manipal Technologies Ltd Hodder & Stoughton policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. Hodder & Stoughton Ltd 338 Euston Road London NW1 3BH www.hodder.co.uk 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd vivi 119/09/20139/09/2013 111:05:211:05:21 To Renée 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd viivii 119/09/20139/09/2013 11:05:2111:05:21 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd viiiviii 119/09/20139/09/2013 111:05:211:05:21 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd ixix 119/09/20139/09/2013 11:05:2111:05:21 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd x 119/09/20139/09/2013 111:05:211:05:21 1 They found Seth Hubbard in the general area where he had promised to be, though not exactly in the condition expected. He was at the end of a rope, six feet off the ground and twisting slightly in the wind. A front was moving through and Seth was soaked when they found him, not that it mattered. Someone would point out that there was no mud on his shoes and no tracks below him, so therefore he was probably hang- ing and dead when the rain began. Why was that important? Ultimately, it was not. The logistics of hanging oneself from a tree are not that simple. Evidently, Seth thought of everything. The rope was three-quarter-inch braided natural Manila, of some age and easily strong enough to handle Seth, who weighed 160 pounds a month earlier at the doctor’s offi ce. Later, an employee in one of Seth’s factories would report that he had seen his boss cut the fi fty-foot length from a spool a week before using it in such dramatic fash- ion. One end was tied fi rmly to a lower branch of the same tree and secured with a slapdash mix of knots and lashings. But, they held. The other end was looped over a higher branch, two feet in girth and exactly twenty-one feet from the ground. From there it fell about nine feet, culminating in a perfect hangman’s knot, one that Seth had undoubtedly worked on for some time. The noose was straight from the textbook with thirteen coils designed to collapse the loop under pressure. A true hangman’s knot snaps the neck, making death quicker and less painful, and apparently Seth had done his homework. Other than what was obvious, there was no sign of a struggle or suffering. 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd 1 119/09/20139/09/2013 11:05:2111:05:21 2 john grisham A six-foot stepladder had been kicked aside and was lying benignly nearby. Seth had picked his tree, fl ung his rope, tied it off, climbed the ladder, adjusted the noose, and, when every- thing was just right, kicked the ladder and fell. His hands were free and dangling near his pockets. Had there been an instant of doubt, of second-guessing? When his feet left the safety of the ladder, but with his hands still free, had Seth instinctively grabbed the rope above his head and fought desperately until he surrendered? No one would ever know, but it looked doubtful. Later evidence would reveal that Seth had been a man on a mission. For the occasion, he had selected his fi nest suit, a thick wool blend, dark gray and usually reserved for funerals in cooler weather. He owned only three. A proper hanging has the effect of stretching the body, so Seth’s trouser cuffs stopped at his ankles and his jacket stopped at his waist. His black wing tips were polished and spotless. His blue necktie was perfectly knotted. His white shirt, though, was stained with blood that had oozed from under the rope. Within hours, it would be known that Seth Hubbard had attended the 11:00 a.m. worship service at a nearby church. He had spoken to acquaintances, joked with a deacon, placed an offering in the plate, and seemed in reasonably good spirits. Most folks knew Seth was battling lung cancer, though virtually no one knew the doctors had given him a short time to live. Seth was on several prayer lists at the church. However, he carried the stigma of two divorces and would always be tainted as a true Christian. His suicide would not help matters. The tree was an ancient sycamore Seth and his family had owned for many years. The land around it was thick with hardwoods, valuable timber Seth had mortgaged repeatedly and parlayed into wealth. His father had acquired the land by dubious means back in the 1930s. Both of Seth’s ex-wives had tried valiantly to take the land in the divorce wars, but he held on. They got virtually everything else. 99981444779554981444779554 SycamoreSycamore RowRow (859h).indd(859h).indd 2 119/09/20139/09/2013 111:05:211:05:21 sycamore Row 3 First on the scene was Calvin Boggs, a handyman and farm laborer Seth had employed for several years. Early Sunday morning, Calvin had received a call from his boss. “Meet me at the bridge at 2:00 p.m.,” Seth said. He didn’t explain anything and Calvin was not one to ask questions. If Mr. Hubbard said to meet him somewhere at a certain time, then he would be there. At the last minute, Calvin’s ten-year-old boy begged to tag along, and, against his instincts, Calvin said yes. They followed a gravel road that zigzagged for miles through the Hubbard property. As Calvin drove, he was certainly curious about the meeting. He could not remember another occasion when he met his boss anywhere on a Sunday afternoon. He knew his boss was ill and there were rumors he was dying, but, like everything else, Mr. Hubbard kept it quiet. The bridge was nothing more than a wooden platform span- ning a nameless, narrow creek choked with kudzu and crawling with cottonmouths. For months, Mr. Hubbard had been plan- ning to replace it with a large concrete culvert, but his bad health had sidetracked him. It was near a clearing where two dilapidated shacks rotted in the brush and overgrowth and offered the only hint that there was once a small settlement there. Parked near the bridge was Mr. Hubbard’s late-model Cadillac, its driver’s door open, along with the trunk. Calvin rolled to a stop behind the car and stared at the open trunk and door and felt the fi rst hint that something might be out of place. The rain was steady now and the wind had picked up, and there was no good reason for Mr. Hubbard to leave his door and trunk open. Calvin told his boy to stay in the truck, then slowly walked around the car without touching it. There was no sign of his boss. Calvin took a deep breath, wiped moisture from his face, and looked at the landscape. Beyond the clearing, maybe a hundred yards away, he saw a body hanging from a tree. He returned to his truck, again told the boy to stay inside and keep the doors locked, but it was too late. The boy was staring at the sycamore in the distance.